Wilson
by KoolJack1
Summary: My prediction of the finale, and what will come after. Please read warning inside.


**WARNING: **Some of the content in this story may be disturbing and/or triggering for some. If self-harm or drug use is a problem for you, please do not continue reading.

She was informed no one had heard from him in a week, or seen him in two. Well, no one had really heard from him at all. When Foreman called for the 30th time, he claimed the phone connected and then disconnected just as fast. When he tried to call back, the phone didn't even ring.

Why was she staring at his closed apartment door? She had no idea. It was a good thing they hadn't seen him in two weeks, they should be happy. She should be happy she hadn't seen him in ten times as long as that. But none of them were happy about it. She didn't even see him at Wilson's funeral, not that she was looking. It wasn't like she would have seen him and approached him to comfort him. It's not like he would have let her. She felt her eyes get wet, and she inhaled deeply, fishing around in her purse for the key everyone except her, had forgotten she had.

Before the door was even opened all the way, she had to scrunch her nose at the smell. It reeked, so bad that she couldn't even identify what the smell was. The apartment that she had remembered being neat and tidy was filthy. The floor was covered with garbage, even the things she recognized as belongings that used to be on shelves were now garbage.

Her eyes swept the room for any sign of life, but all she could identify emptiness and a decaying soul. "House?" She whispered quietly. She hadn't said his name in so long, and it burned on the way out. Greeted with only silence, she hung her bag from the hook on the door and slowly headed down the hallway. His bedroom was in the same state as the rest of the place. She stared at the disarray of bedding, memories of the nights she laid with him in that bed came flooding back, leaving a bad taste in her mouth. She turned away before she made herself sick, and stared at the door across the hall. The bathroom door was slightly ajar, completely dark. She slowly pushed it open more, nearly gagging on the smell. Florescent lighting flooded the room with a flip of a switch, and she gaped in disgust. House gargled at the intrusion of light, but didn't move.

It took her a moment to process the scene before her. Used and unused syringes were scattered around the floor, an empty bottle of Vicodin and a partially full one sat within arms reach. A small razor sat alongside the other tragedies. She felt herself go pale at the blood and vomit that covered everything. Her eyes fell on him then, and she covered her mouth with her hand. He was propped up against the side of the tub in front of the toilet. His head was tipped back, jaw slack, eyes closed. She hurried to his side, kneeling in the mess on the floor without care. She quickly untied the rubber around his upper arm, then took his face in her hands.

"God, House. I need you to open your eyes. I need to know what you took, and how much." She cursed herself for leaving her cell phone in her purse. She shook him when she got no reply. "Greg, please. I need you to try to open your eyes." Her fingers found his throat, and she was relieved to feel a weak throb against her fingers. She could hear tiny wheezing breaths from his open mouth; he was alive, but barely.

He had a fever, she could feel it under her palms. "House," she tried again, surprised by how desperate she sounded, "Please." His whole body twitched, his dark, sunken eyes barely opening.

She smiled at him, brushing his hair from his face. "Hey, keep your eyes open okay?" His eyes locked on the toilet, and she could have sworn she felt his body attempt to sit up before he went slack. His head thudded back against the wall behind him and fell to the side. He gagged up bloody goo, dribbling it down his chin before weakly trying to lay down on the floor.

"No, come on House. You need to stay alert for me. What did you take?" She hoisted him into the sitting position, his eyes rolling around in his head. "Answer me damn it."

"Cuddy?" He questioned, his eyes narrowing in an attempt to make out her face.

"Yeah, I'm here, I want to help you," she insisted gently, rubbing his cheek with her thumb.

Without warning, an anguish filled moan bubbled out of House's chest. "Oh _GOD_," he sobbed, lifting his head and bashing it back against the tile. Startled, she squeezed his face, holding him still. "Who are you? Let go, God, _don't_." In his hysterics, House reached for one of the full syringes, but Cuddy knelt on his hand.

"House! I'm right here, please try to relax. I need you to listen," he just kept crying.

"God damn it!" She yelled, "Look at me." He did, his glassy, lifeless blue eyes staring up at her, unfocused. "Everyone was worried when they couldn't reach you, and I didn't see you at..." She chose not to say it, "and I wanted to come check up on you. I'm here, House. I need to help you, but you need to tell me what it is you've been taking."

He licked blood off his cracked lips, "Heroin, Vicodin, Vodka, and some Morphine."

"All at once? How can you be so stupid?"

He shook his head, his breath coming in pants now, "No, over the past few weeks."

She looked at the fresh cuts on his arms and back at him. "Are you attempting suicide?"

An eerie, haunted smile played on his lips, "I don't deserve to commit suicide."

The venom in his words caused her to shiver, and suddenly she had the most unbearable urge to get up and run as far away from here as possible. "How long have you been on the floor in here?"

He groaned, "I can't 'member."

"Stay with me House, I need to get you off this floor, maybe in the shower?" She peered over into the tub, only to find more vomit and blood. Disgusted, she looked back down at him. "How much are you on now?"

"I need another fix," and he reached for the syringe again. She grabbed his arm, careful of the cuts, and held his hand.

"No, that's over. I'm going to help you through this." His pupils were the size of a needle tip, but still his gaze made her shiver. She reached under his arms and hoisted him to his feet. He balanced between the wall and her body, and together they shuffled to the bedroom. He was shaking as she set him on the bed, "I'm going to get a few things, I swear I'll be right back."

He didn't answer, and she went to collect supplies. The apartment was unsurprisingly empty, but she managed to collect everything she needed. He hadn't moved an inch since she left, and she set everything down on the end table. He was unresponsive when she gently removed his soiled clothes. She took a washcloth and carefully cleaned him, mindful of the bruises and cuts. She didn't realize she had tears running down her cheeks until she moved to switch to the first aid kit.

She tended to the wounds before digging around to find clothes for him, dressing him in pajama bottoms and a large sweat shirt. She collected the bedding and went to work of covering him, reaching for the glass of water she brought and bringing it to his lips. He unconsciously took a sip, sputtering on the water. She noticed then that one of his fingers looked broken, and reached for it.

"Wilson?" House suddenly whispered, confused. She looked up at his face again to find his eyes open into tiny slits. She knew he had lost awareness again, stuck in whatever fog he was in. "Wilson," his voice broke this time, tears dripping down his cheeks and onto the pillow below. She was frozen, her heart pounding as he tried again, "Wilson," he sounded like a frantic animal. His body convulsed, his hands sliding around in search of something to grasp. "Wilson," he tried again, and Cuddy backed away a few steps. He was in a full on panic now, nostrils flairing. "I need Wilson," he begged the open air, "Please." She looked around in search of an answer before finally coming to his side and grasping his searching hand.

He whined, "Wilson?" His eyes were closed again, and she was almost positive he didn't have the strength to keep them open anymore.

"Yeah, House." His whole body relaxed then, and she gently laid down next to him. He snuggled against her, and she let him. Unsure of what else to do to comfort him, she settled on stroking his hair while he slept. Well, she wasn't sure if he was sleeping or unconscious in a drug induced fog, but she supposed it didn't matter as long as she could still feel his breathing against her neck. She couldn't believe she was here again, laying in a bed with the man who she swore she'd never see again, while her daughter and the love of her life were back at her house. Or maybe the love of her life was in her arms right now, then she chased the thought away.

Unsure of what tomorrow, or even later would bring, she closed her eyes as she realized how exhausted she really was. She squeezed him a little tighter, and decided that she didn't need to know right now.


End file.
